


(At the Very Least), I Can

by sElkieNight60



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne is Trying, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson Angst, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Full Body Paralysis, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Injury, Injury Recovery, Se.N
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25332493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: “… something is wrong.”That was Bruce's voice, he would know it anywhere.OR, Dick Grayson + Full Body Paralysis
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Everyone
Comments: 33
Kudos: 481





	(At the Very Least), I Can

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I was ~~bullied~~ gently coerced into taking this off anon, but I forgot how to do that so I just reposted it. Now with edits! Hope you enjoy! And welcome back if you've already read this one -- I apologize!

It was supposed to have been a simple mission, a routine― _I'll_ _take The Joker, you handle Scarecrow_ _―_ because apparently the villains in Gotham were working together now, or so Nightwing learned when Batman had called, forcing him to roll out of bed like a well wrapped burrito, cocooned in his blankets like a caterpillar.

The five of them had split into two teams, Bruce and Tim had gone for The Joker. Damian, Jason and himself had gone for Scarecrow. Of course it had all gone horribly wrong.

After being sprayed in the face with some mind altering substance― _stupid, Grayson, stupid_ _―_ he'd lost consciousness pretty much with immediate effect, but he could feel himself waking now, driving upwards through the inky blackness until he surfaced like a drowning man in the middle of the ocean.

“Oh, Bruce,” someone shouted too nearby his ear, “he's coming round!”

Dick squeezed his eyes shut and then forced them open, their weight more unyielding than the heaviest of sandbags. It was like prying apart twine. Above him were faces, each of them filled with varying degrees of relief, but it was Tim who spoke first, beating the rest of them to it. “Dick! You're awake, thank god.”

Jason's face loomed into view too and he felt a hand squeeze his arm, “You idiot.” He said quietly, “You had everybody worried about you.” That was oddly gentle. “Dickhead.” Okay, maybe not.

Dick tried to open his mouth to speak, but the muscles in his jaw wouldn't comply.

Damian sniffed and make an odd noise, “Well, I'm… pleased you are awake again, Grayson.” Was all the boy managed, though the genuine emotion behind his eyes betrayed his disaffected tone.

Dick tried again, willing the muscles of his mouth to move if only so he could pull up a smile, but nothing was forthcoming. Not even the muscles behind his eyes would move. All he could do was blink, but even doing that was an absolute chore.

“… something is wrong.”

That was Bruce's voice, he would know it anywhere. With soft footfalls on the carpet, his former guardian's face suddenly swam into sight with the rest of them, a thumb coming up to lift Dick's eyebrow. Bruce was inspecting his pupils, mouth pulling into a thin, tight line as he did so.

“What's wrong with him?” Jason again, but he sounded strangely nervous. If Dick could see his hands, he suspected he would have seen nervous, white knuckled fists by his side.

Tim had disappeared out of view, Bruce having crowded in and taken up his space, but the next words were certainly his. “Can he hear us? Bruce, can he hear us talking to him?”

Dick was surprised to see the man swallow hard. “I don't know,” was all he said, releasing Dick's eyebrow from underneath his finger. There was a lingering… _something_ there, in his words, though Dick didn't know quite what.

When had he gotten so bad at reading Bruce? He used to be so adept at it as a child…

“Grayson, I demand you speak to me now.” Damian sounded angry, yet suddenly terrified all at once. _Like a child,_ his mind supplied. Nobody called him out on it, their faces all seemed to echo similar feelings. It would have made Dick burst out with a bright smile if he could, instead his heart just swelled as his head filled with despair, the conflicting emotions somehow existing simultaneously. “Say something, anything!”

But Dick _couldn't_ , no matter how hard he tried to force his lips apart, no matter how hard he tried to shoot the young boy a reassuring glance, he just _couldn't_.

“Damian,” Tim said, resting a hand on the kid's shoulder, which the boy immediately shook off. “Stop it.”

“Unhand me, Drake,” Damian snapped back, spitting venom like a snake. The pair of them were waspish and defensive and Dick wanted nothing more than to tell his brothers to _please not fight,_ but he just _couldn't_.

Bruce took control of the situation, shifting into Batman, minus the cowl. It was odd to hear him take control of a family situation outside of their night-time activities and Dick only realised why after the fact: it was because it was more often than not _Dick_ who broke up the family fights.

“Alright, listen up,” Bruce began, breaking through Dick's train of thought. “We do shifts, we watch over him. Inform Alfred or myself immediately if anything about Dick's situation changes.”

Tim sat down in the chair in the corner of Dick's childhood bedroom and crossed his legs as he folded his arms, giving the group a steely look as though challenging them to move him as he said, “I'll take first watch.” Nobody did.

Bruce gave him a nod and ushered the others out the room, gently clapping Tim on the shoulder as he too went. “I'll be in my study, if he…” Bruce broke of gently, his words meant for Tim's ears alone. _If anything happens,_ went unsaid.

Dick barely made out the silent exchange, having it all take place in his peripheral, but once the group was gone and it was just him and Tim, the boy dragged the chair closer until he was practically pressed up against the mattress. In one hand he took Dick's own before he leaned down and rested his forehead against the bed, Tim's hair brushing against his arm. And then, much to Dick's surprise, the boy started to cry. Not openly, or with wailing sobs, but quietly so as only Dick could hear him as he mumbled frantic apologies under his breath about him not being there, hiccuping his way through phrases.

More than anything Dick wanted to run a hand through Tim's hair and pull him close, hug him and make sure the boy knew _it wasn't his fault_ , it wasn't any of their fault.

But Dick _couldn't_.

* * *

Three days passed. Jason played every comedy in the Wayne manor DVD collection and then decided to hit up Netflix too. Damian recounted tales from his day at school and then did his homework, apparently pretending Dick was helping him by nodding and occasionally murmuring, “I hadn't thought of that. Good suggestion, Grayson,” and the like, as he scribbled down answers or typed them up on his school issued laptop. Tim mostly just sat quietly and read, making sure to first hit shuffle on Dick's old iPod―which was, for some reason, still at Wayne manor having never actually made it to his apartment in Blüdhaven. He had to admit it was kind of comforting having his favourite (more than a decade old) pop tunes on repeat; he could remember every lyric, still. Alfred bathed and fed him during his time spent in vigil and he was _immensely_ grateful for Alfred, but there was always a frown on his forehead whilst he worked. Dick just wanted to poke it and smooth it off the old butler's face. He missed seeing the man happy.

Bruce… talked. Which was weird. He talked about missions and cases and all the ordinary stuff that they'd talked about when Dick was still the only Robin about the place, so it was a topic Bruce could get into a rhythm with and then not stop for hours. But still. Bruce. _Talking_. For more than one sharp order at a time. It was weird.

Then, the fourth day, something happened.

Damian was in the room with him, the boy chatting aimlessly about some guy in the Academy's chess club that was “particularly ill-suited to the game” when Dick managed to glance over and― _freaking hallelujah, he could move his eyes again!_ _―_ Damian saw it. For a moment he thought the kid would actually scream; he went pale as a ghost and suddenly looked shaky, gripping Dick's arm with enough force that it actually hurt.

The shouting was uncalled for, he thought, but Damian's face was so panicked that Dick immediately forgave the decibels. “Grayson, can you see me―? Grayson, I―I'll get Father, hold on!”

Then he bolted from the room faster than The Flash and returned less than a minute later with not Bruce, but Alfred and Jason in tow.

“I saw him!” Damian was insisting upon his return, “He looked right at me!”

Neither Alfred nor Jason looked convinced, but Dick wasn't entirely sure he could pull off that same stunt again just yet and internally he sighed, knowing there was little more he could do than hope they eventually believed Damian's claim.

Jason shrugged, “Looks the same to me.” He said, taking up residence in the chair that hadn't moved from where Tim had dragged it on the first day. “Maybe it was a trick of the light?”

Dick knew it was the wrong thing to say to the boy, but Jason wasn't looking at Damian when the boy's face clouded over darkly. Luckily, Alfred was there to steer the situation into calmer waters.

“It is possible you saw something, Master Damian, Dick may be on the mend,” said the butler as gently as he could. “But in any case, your turn with Dick is finished. Let Jason take over now.”

The young boy looked as though he wanted to protest, but one glance at Dick had him deflating and nodding, collecting up his finished homework from the desk Dick had also spent countless hours at. Alfred and the youngest of his brother's left. Then Jason put on Shawn of the Dead and cackled the whole way through it.

* * *

It was Tim's turn with him when Dick managed to move again the next day. For four hours he'd practiced visualising his limbs, his body, ignoring Jason's comedy of the day. He hadn't exactly listened to Damian's wild classroom tales either, but it had all paid off when he was finally able to move his pinky finger.

Tim's hand had been _right there_. So close. Close enough that Dick had been able to tap the boy twice on it and the boy had looked up in alarm as Dick willed his eyes to look. They obeyed and he counted it as a win when Tim sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. The reaction he received was not at all like Damian's, thankfully. Tim was quiet, whispering nothing more than a soft utterance of his name before he slipped his palm under Dick's fingers and said, “Tap my palm twice if you can hear me.”

And somehow, Dick did.

Tim's face broke out into the first genuine smile he'd seen in days, the edges of his eyes going a little wet.

“How are you feeling?” The boy asked, rushed, before cutting himself off with a, “No, that's too broad. Sorry. Uh, should I get someone? Tap once for yes, twice for no.”

Dick had tapped twice.

“Are you sure?” Tim pressed, the smile sliding at the edges.

Dick tapped once.

Tim's eyebrows lifted, but he acquiesced. “Okay.” He said simply, but apparently hearing from Dick was too big of a gift to pass up right away. The next few hours were spent asking 'yes' or 'no' questions― _are you comfortable? Yes. Do you want a drink of water? No. Are you hungry? No_ _―_ instead of Dick practising moving his other extremities, like toes.

When Tim's replacement found them―Alfred―Tim showed the old butler the neat way they'd developed a dialogue. After that, the whole house was quickly informed that Dick was on the up and up.

A barrage of questions came from every member of the family after that. Everyone wanted to know how he was doing; Was he hungry? Thirsty? Tired? Did he need to pee? Bruce was the only one who seemed to maintain the same routine as before, which Dick was grateful for and yet oddly annoyed with. In the evening Bruce would just take up his place and talk about case developments with his hands carefully folded in his lap, never close enough for Dick to touch. It was… disheartening. Dick couldn't help feeling as though Bruce was ignoring him a little. It hurt.

* * *

Barely two days later, Dick was able to move his entire upper body. Alfred came in with his evening meal, found the young man pushing himself upright and nearly dropped the tray in fright.

“Master Dick,” he chastised in that way only Alfred could, looking positively exasperated and over the moon too as he set the precariously held tray on the desk. “You shouldn't be moving yourself yet.” He wanted to inform Alfred that he hadn't moved of his own volition in _over a week_ , but all he managed was a single grunt and Alfred hurried to help steady his wobbling arms that threatened to give out under him.

His new found movement didn't stay a secret between them long. Jason walked in on them a few hours later and nearly tripped over his feet in a similar manor when he found Dick propped upright in bed, eyes bugling wide with disbelief.

When Bruce came in to relieve Jason from Dick-sitting duty around midnight―the latter having subjected him to two brutal romance-comedies that were absolutely loathsome (he suspected Jason thought the same and the only reason he'd sat through them was simply to torture Dick)―the man smelled like engine oil and gunpowder, a sure sign that he'd been out on the streets of Gotham not too long prior. It was a strangely comforting smell that made him want to relax, but he immediately did the opposite and stiffened instead when Bruce sank into the chair and ran a tired hand over his exhausted face with a sigh.

“How are you feeling, chum?” He asked, the familiar moniker rolling off the older man's tongue oddly. It felt kind of bizarre to have it directed at Dick again, as unused to hearing it as he was. “Gotham was rough tonight,” Bruce continued, not waiting for nor expecting a response. His voice dropped lower, quieter. “Could've used you out there tonight, Dick.”

An inhalation hitched in the younger man's throat, caught between emotion and the aching need for silence. Bruce looked at him and sighed again, dropping his head to his hands to take a deep, fortifying breath. “I didn't mean to burden you with that…” he said suddenly, “I just…” his voice so quiet that Dick nearly missed what came next. “I… out there. It's different now,” Bruce's voice gained a coloured note, but Dick couldn't pin-point the exact emotion there. “Gotham's changed; she's a harder city than she used to be…”

The man looked up again, looking startled at his own words as chagrin bloomed across his face like a bruise. “I… again. I did not mean to put that on you.”

Dick's lips twitched at the corners of his mouth. _Ever the same_ , he thought.

Reaching a hand out, Dick kept it just a hands breadth away from Bruce's knee in case the man chose not to take it and, for a minute, he wasn't sure he would. Dick felt his smile start to fade his arm beginning to tremble, struggling with the effort of holding still and trying not to let it shake suspended in mid-air. But the second the effort became too much, Bruce was there. A hand catching his own―the first actual connection the older man had allowed―and gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze that had Dick's spirits lifting.

Bruce appeared awash with conflicting emotions and Dick wanted so badly to tell him it was alright, he didn't blame Bruce for this. _But he couldn't._

“I remember when you were but a boy,” the man said suddenly, looking at their joined hands as he sent another short squeeze along their connection. “Nothing scared me more than having you come out on patrol only for us to get separated and then you'd get hurt, I… it scared me to no end. Apparently, things haven't changed as much as I had hoped.”

Bruce's lips turned upwards, but the expression he made was nothing short of distressed, sadness pooling in the lines of his face. “… I've really made a mess between us, haven't I?”

For a moment, Dick wasn't quite sure he'd actually heard the other man correctly, for it sounded far too much like an apology, like regret.

“I know things can never go back to the way they used to be,” Bruce continued, as though dejected by the thought. “But… _god, Dick_ , my heart nearly stopped when I saw you lying there awake yet unseeing. I thought, for a second, that I'd lost you too. You were here but… but you weren't.”

Dick had never wished harder for his voice to come back, but it didn't and he was forced to settle with a squeeze of his own to Bruce's hand. It seemed to shock the other man out of whatever spiral he was devolving down and he startled for a second time.

After he looked up again, Dick quirked a soft eyebrow and released Bruce's hand, reaching up for the man's shirt with a shaky palm and gripping it tightly. Dick couldn't say the words he wished to say, but perhaps he could do this, maybe he could release Bruce from the weight that threatened to crush him like the ocean. For whatever else he was, Bruce still cared, he'd never stopped loving. That much was evident.

Yanking the man forwards, he went easily as Dick wrapped his arms around Bruce's torso. The hug was difficult at first, he didn't have enough strength to maintain it on his own, but Bruce's arms came up hesitantly after a moment and then, without warning, that grip tightened its hold until Dick was being all but crushed to the older man's chest. Bruce's hand came up to cradle the back of his head, and a hand brushed down his locks.

Maybe soon Dick would be able to say all the things he wanted to say to Bruce; to everyone. But for now, at the very least, _he could do this._

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos if you liked this work! Also, if you want to make a new friend, come chat with me at [Tumblr](https://selkienight60.tumblr.com/).


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